LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Wall Street, 



OR 



LOVE LOST AND WON, 



</■ 



A Play in Five Acts. 

v 



JAsisfL 



Printed for the Author, 

— by — 

H. M. Brockstedt, St. Louis, Mo. 

1880. 



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*1 



,1- 



PERSONS. 



^. Randk. 
Chas. Butterbee. 

Mr. Sharp. 
Mr. Prideall. 
Speculators. 
Servants. 



Miss Anna Prideatl. 
Mary, afterwards 
Mrs. Butterbee. 
Miss Helen. 
Miss Judith. 
Mrs. Raftus. 



Entered, according to Act cf Congress, in the year 1880, by 

LOUIS GOTTSCHALK, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TMP92-009139 



ACT I. 

Scene I. Plain Room. 
Charles and Mary. 

Charles. Well, Mary in about six months, }'Ou will not 
have have the privilege to teaze or plague me any longer. 

Mary. And how is this, Charley? 

Chas. Why, in that time, I will have saved money enough 
to buv me the necessaries for a little household, and then 
I will come to my little teazing Mary, take her by the hand, 
go with her to the next squire, and then — 

Mary. And what then? 

Chas. Why, marry her, and then you see those awfully 
solemn words will be pronounced. — "Thou shalt be obedi- 
ent to your husband." — that means you, who is to be obe- 
dient, and from that hour, your Charlev, whom you now 
plague so much, is your lord and master. 

Mary. Oh, but that is not fair. 

Cbas. Yes it is. Before marriage, the ladies are the 
masters — after marriage, the men are, or, at least, should be. 

Mary True, and the wife should be obedient to her 
husband in everything that is right. Is that not so ? 

Chas. , Why of course, and I certainly would never 
demand anything wrong. 



Mary. O, then, of course I would obey. But whether it 
be right or wrong, is to be decided by me, and it it appear 
to me to be wrong, I of course could not and would not 
obey. And so, if your commands will suit my wishes, 
I will gladly obey them ; if not, then I will decide they are 
all wrong, and will not. 

Chas. That is a nice obedience, indeed ! 

Mary. And then, you see, you have taken me for bet- 
ter or for worse. But it is a long time, these six months, 
and we will not trouble ourselves before hand. Sufficient 
unto the day, is the evil thereof. 

Chas. Ah, but this day may come very soon ; you see, 
I had such a nice dream last night. I dreamt that I was 
lying asleep, and all at once the door opened and a man 
came in and he began to throw such piles of greenbacks 
at me that it hurt my head. I woke up, and had the head- 
ache ever since. 

Mary. Indeed ! why, then, of course that dream will 
be realized. But what did that man look like? 

Chas. I can hardly describe him ; but I would not be 
astonished if something great would not happen soon, and 
all at once I would become a rich man. 

Mary. Ha, ha, ha ! I wonder how you would look as 
a rich man ? 

Chas. I think, I would cut a decidedly good figure. 
The fact is, I always think, I was cut out for a rich man, 
but somehow, or other, I missed it. 

Mary. But when do 3^011 expect that man with the 
greenbacks to come ? I am anxious to make his acquaintance, 
and to become good friends with him. 

Chas. I have been looking for him all day, but in vain, 
( // knocks. ) Halloh, what is that ? 

Mary. Why Charley, open quick, that may be he. 



Scene ii. 
Charles, Mary, Henry. 

Charles. My friend Henry — welcome to you ! 

Henry. How do you do, Charles, and how is Miss 
Berry? 

Mary. Welcome to you, Mr Randall. 

Hen. I have but just arrived from our home village, 
and I have brought a letter from your sister Clara, Miss 
Berry, to you, and which I promised to deliver immedi- 
ately upon my arrival, as she expects to come here on a 
visit ; or perhaps to stay altogether (gives he?' the letter). 

Mary. Excuse me, if I read it now. It may contain 
something important. (Steps aside to read.) 

Hen. But Charles, I'm a little astonished to find you 
here. 

Chas. There is nothing remarkable about it. We are 
very good friends and something more. 

Hen. Oh, then let me congratulate you. 

Chas. But what have you been doing since I saw you 
last? I heard you were sick. 

Hen. Oh, Charles when you left me three years ago, 
I was in the full enjoyment of earthly blessings. Since 
then I have experienced much misfortune. My father, 
prosperous and rich as he was then, I his only child, grown 
up in affluence and without trouble of any kind, I could 
not discover any cloud on the horizon of my happi- 
ness. And yet treacherous friends have robbed me of all 
they could take. My father, in his kindness, assisted 
others, he endorsed notes, became security, and in a short 
time, he found his poor friends rich, and himself poor and 
in need of assistance ; so poor, that in fact, it took the last 
cent of his property. It grieved him so that he was thrown 
upon a bed of sickness, from which he recovered only a 
short time ago, poor but honest. I assisted him all I could 



— 4— 

and thanks to his untiring energy, he has again established 
a little business in another town, to commence life anew, 
as he would no longer remain in the place where he could 
daily see the friends who betrayed him. 

Chas. I am sorry for your good father. But what 
brings you to this big city? 

Hen. You know, Charles, that in those former days I 
became acquainted and engaged to Miss Anna Prideall, 
who was then at our village, visiting the Academy. She 
returned to her father's home, in this city, about two years 
ago, but we continued to correspond for a long time after- 
wards. But for several months I have received no answers 
to my letters, so I finally resolved to come here myself and 
discover the cause, especiallv, as the small business in 
which my father has again engaged is insufficient for both 
of us. I intended also to see whether I could find an oppor- 
tunity here, for me, to be employed in some position 
adapted to my capacity. 

Chas. And have you no suspicion why you received no 
answer to your letters, from Miss Prideall? 

Hen. I have understood that her father has become 
very rich, and he may have heard of my father's misfor- 
tune, and may, for that reason, be averse to the alliance of 
his daughter to a poor man, and so have prohibited any 
correspondence. 

Chas. But may not she, herself have changed her 
mind? She has not seen you for a long time and the 
change in your circumstances may also have had its effect 
upon her. 

Mary. ( Who, after reading the letter stepped up 
again.) Oh Charles, how can you suppose that? 

Hen. Thanks to you. Miss Berry, for you good opinion 
of my dear Anna. No, Charles, I know her, and there- 
fore know that her very nature is incapable of such a 
change for such a cause. 



— 5— 

Chas. But experience teaches, that young ladies {pres- 
ent company of course, always excepted) do sometimes 

change, especially 

Hen. Do not offend me, Charles. Do not measure her 
with the ordinary measure. Do not compare her to the 
thousand and one sentimental young women of our age, 
who see a fine moustache, or a diamond breast pin, and 
imajjine themselves in love with the wearer, and continue 
to believe it until either a still finer moustache appears, or 
until thev have the misfortune to call the moustache their 
own, when thev as Suddenly become aware of their mis- 
take. No, believe me, I know Anna too well, she is a true 
woman, and she is therefore, true to her love as all true 
women are, so long as the man himself is worthy of her 
love. 

Chas. Well I hope you are correct. 
Mary. Oh, I know it. How could it be otherwise? 
Hen. Your words, Miss Berry, prove to me what a 
treasure my friend Charles has found in you. 

Chas. Oh, my Mary is the best, and she cannot but 
think, but that all are like her. But Henry, I am afraid, 
that even if she has remained true, that her father will 
have serious objections : for what you have heard is true, 
that by his shrewd speculation in Wall street, he has in- 
creased his fortune immenselv and is now one of the richest 
men in the city. 

Hen. I was not aware of it, and on my account, I am 
sorry for it, for the -world may think I am actuated by mer- 
cenary motives. 

Chas. What do you care for the world ? It has cared 
nothing for vou ; if she only have remained true. 

Hen. Never doubt it. But I am impatient to see her. 
I will therefore depart. 

Chas. Wait one moment. I have heard by accident, 
that there will be a party at her house to-night. Perhaps 



you had better wait therefore until to-morrow. 

Hen. No, I am too impatient to see her. I will en- 
deavor to be admitted, and she will no doubt be glad to 
see me. 

Excuse my impatience, Miss Berry. 

Charles, I hope to see you soon again. Adieu for the 
present ; I must hasten to get off the dust of traveling and 
prepare to meet her. 

Chas. and Mary. Good day, then — 
(Henry Goes ojf~.) 

Mary. Now, Charles, is this the person whom you saw 
in your dream, throwing all those greenbacks at you? 

Chas. No, I believe not, at any rate, he has not man}- 
to throw just now. But be that as it may, he is the noblest 
and best man I ever met. And I wall even forgive him, 
that by his uncalled for interruption, he has spoiled my tete 
a tete with my little Mary, and has deprived me of the 
further pleasure of her company ; for the time has fled so 
quick, that I must go. 

Mary. Well, Charles, if you must, you must. But do 
not dream any more such dreams of greenbacks, when you 
realize nothing by them, except a headache,. 

Chas. No, in future I will only dream at night, as in 
day time I only think — of you. (°ff) 
( Scene changes. ) 

Scene hi. — Parlor in Mr.PridcalVs house. 

Miss Anna, Miss Judith t and other ladies and gents, later 
Mr. Sharp. 

Miss yndith. O dear, I would like to know where Mr. 
Sharp stays, he is so late, and I am so anxious to hear the 
latest scandal. 

Anna. And so you love scandal? 

yudith. Oh, who does not? It is so consoling to hear 
of the wickedness and misbehavior of other folks. 



— 7— 

But here comes Helen. 

My dear, how do you do, and why so later 

Helen. Oh I have been detained, by writing a valedic- 
tory letter. 

Anna. A valedictory letter! and who may that unhappy 
gentleman be ? 

'Judith. Do tell us all about it. 

Helen. You are all mistaken. It is not a gentleman : 
it is a young lady of your acquaintance. It is Clara Morris. 
Just imagine, she has lost so much respect for herself, and 
for the society she has moved in, as to fall in love with her 
farther' s former clerk. Yesterday she engaged herself to 
him, and in a short while she is to be married. 

Judith. Impossible ! you must be mistaken. But here 
comes Mr. Sharp, he, no doubt, has the latest information. 

Mr. Sharp, what is the truth about this rumour of Miss 
Morris. 

Sharp. It is all true. I took particular pains to enquire 
about it — Poor Miss Morris, I pity her. 

Anna. But why pit}' her? She may love him and find 
her happiness in this love. 

Sharp. How, Miss Anna, do you defend her conduct? 
Would vou ever be capable of stooping out of the high 
sphere of society you are moving in, to many a — 

Anna. Mr. Sharp, I am not Miss Morris. I am not one 
of those sentimental creatures, who, believes in sub-ordin- 
ating her whole existence to the throbbing of this little 
oman called the heart. I do not believe that that feel- 
ing designated as love, should over-power my reason 
and all other faculties of my mind, and should be 
permitted to take such possession of me, that I would be 
willing to offer everything else as a sacrifice to it. I be- 
lieve in my heart being ruled by me, but not to rule me. 
Should I ever suspect a feeling, w r hich would militate 
against my reason, or which w r ould threaten to become too 



—8— 

violent, I would tear it out of my bosom, were the wound 
ever so painful, or incurable. 

Sharp. Miss Anna, you have delighted me by the ex- 
pressions of these sentiments so much in accord with my 
own. Love without being tempered by reason is weakness 
of character, absence of spirit ; it is an attack of a sickness. 
or a fever to which a weak constitution will succumb, but 
which can have no effect upon a sound mind, and which 
must soon yield to the medicine which better judgment 
prescribes. It is an absurdity to palliate or offer as an 
excuse for the acts of any person that it was done for love, 
for that argues such person to be weak minded. 

How Miss Morris could ever descend from her proud 
position in society to her present level, I can only explain 
on that hypothesis, but how her lover could ever be so pre- 
sumptuous, I can only explain on the theory of self inter- 
est and self-love. I would never dare to offer my hand to 
any one I had the slightest regard for, if I could not place 
her in a rank equal, at least to that, which she had hereto- 
fore occupied. "Only the brave deserve the fair," but in 
this country where bravery has been reduced to a practical 
and peacable standpoint, it should read, "only the rich 
deserve the fair." 

Love which seeks not to elevate its object to a higher 
standard, but on the contrary, to detract it from its pedestal 
is nothing but self-love and egotism, and any man who will 
be sufficiently audacious, to ask the hand of any lady who 
is above him in rank, position and wealth is only actu- 
ated by mercenary motives, for he asks her to sacrifice 
these earthly blessings for him, and instead of giving all 
sacrifices to her whom he pretends to love, he asks her to 
sacrifice herself to him. Such love I call self-love, egotism 
and nothing else. 

Anna. Mr. Sharp, you excel yourselves this evening. 
Sharp. I am happy if I meet with your approbation, 



and would ask as a reward, the honor of the first dance : 
as I hear the music beginning. 

Anna. It is granted with pleasure. 

Sharp. You make me the happiest of all mortals. 
(Dance). 

( A/ter dance, Mr. Sharp takes Miss Anna to a seat). 

Scene IV. 
Henry Randall, Sharp and Miss Anna. 

Henry. Oh, Miss Pride ill, will you permit me to 
intrude? 

Anna. Why Henry — I mean Mr. Randall — I am sur- 
prised to meet you, but permit me, Mr. Sharp, to introduce 
you to a friend of my youth, of my former days. Mr. 
Randall, Mr. Sharp, a friend of my -present days. 
( Introducing them. ) 

Hen. Mr. Sharp, you will pardon my impertinence, in 
disturbing your conversation, but my impatience to see my 
friend was too great for human endurance. 

Sharp. And, Mr. Randall, believe me in saying, that 
it is a great consolation for me, to be able to give Miss 
Anna a few moments of unalloyed pleasure, in recalling 
the reminisences of her youth, in company with her friend 
and therefore both of you, I hope will excuse me, if I leave 
you. 

(Bozvs and goes away.) 

Henry. Oh, Anna, at last I see you again. 

Anna. But Henry, what a surprise to me, and how was 
it possible for you to gain entrance? 

Henry. Your old servant, who remembered me well, 
admitted me without further ceremony. 

Anna. {Aside, There is no use in keeping these remi- 
nisences of former years around } r ou. I will discharge him 
instantly). 

But what is the cause of this sudden appearance? Why 



10- 



did you not prepare me for this visit? 

Henry. Oh, Anna, after the trouble of my father, and 
which of course, naturally affected me also, and about 
which I had written all to you, was disposed of, I could no 
longer remain in that little town, where I had experienced 
so much ingratitude, and saw so much of the vileness of 
human nature. I formed the intention of departing thence 
and what other place could have so much attraction forme, 
than that city where I knew my own beloved Anna to 
dwell, I had received no answer to my letters and imagin 
ation conjured up all possible evils which might have 
befallen you, my beloved. But now I see you again, well 
and more radiant in health and beautv than ever. I am again 
united to you, and I feel that my troubles and unhappiness 
have terminated, for your presence restores to me, all that 
I ever lost. 

Anna. But Henry, when you received no answer to your 
letters, have you never doubted me? Did you ever suspect 
that the changed circumstances with you, as well as with me, 
may have also effected a change with me and with my 
sentiments ? 

Hen. Never, Anna, never for one moment. Not a day 
passed, not a night, but I saw you, and as the lost traveler on 
the sea implicitly relies on his compass to point out to him the 
safe harbour, so my love to you, guided me through all my 
torubles and my confidence and my hope, that you yourselves 
would reward me, always inspired me with renewed energy and 
vigour, whenever sorrows threatened to overwhelm me. But 
this experience has confirmed me in the opinion, which you and 
I have so often expressed to each other, that there is no happi- 
ness, but in the union of two loving hearts ; that all other is a 
mere shadow, and that all ties, however strong, will break 
under the weight of adversity, but that the ties of confiding, 
disinterested, true love, are proof against all strain of adver- 



— 1 1 — 

sity and misfortune, and that they cannot be severed, except 
by death, 

Anna. You still believe this? 

Hen. I do, and have believed it ever since I knew you. 
No happiness without love. I thought once I was happy, 
because I was in the full enjoyment of all earthly blessings > 
but what a shadow of happiness Was this. I learned to know 
you and to love you. And how vain, how empty was all my 
former existence. And when, subsequently those dark days 
over-took me, still what little real unhappiness they could 
bring me. Riches would fly, friends forsake me, but they 
could not rob me of my love, and I was then happy, yes far 
happier in the consciousness of my love, than all those who 
imagined they had destroyed every vestige of my happiness. 

Anna. You are still as romantic as ever, and of course 
you still believe in love making happy, happy even with pov- 
erty ? 

Hen. I do, and more firmly than ever. I have lost all 1 
posessed but you, but with you, poverty will have no terrors 
for me, as without you riches would have no attractions. 

Anna. But Henry, do not forget that two years have 
elapsed since last we met, that I have since then been reared 
in luxury and have been accustomed to its surroundings and 
that perhaps I may miss and regret its absence. 

Hen. No, Anna, you will not. I know you better. Your 
love will compensate for all that, and my love and my devo- 
tion will permit no thought of its absence ever to arise in 
your mind. 

Anna. And still, Henry, you are mistaken. 

Hen. Mistaken, Anna, what mean you ? 

Anna. Henry, let me now say a few words. I have too 
high a respect for your intelligence to believe that I could 
deceive you, too high a respect for your character and 
mine, to be willing to do so. Since last we met, circumstances 
with you as with me, have changed and left their impressions 
upon us. I am no longer that romantic young lady, who 



12 — 

roaming through the forest, or gliding over the silvery surface 
of the lake, would imagine that this world was made for two 
loving hearts, and would view every scene through a glass 
colored by her love, and listen to nothing but what my lov- 
ing heart would whisper. Those were school-days, when I 
was a pupil at the academy, when you learned to know and 
to love me, and when I reciprocated that love with all the 
enthusiasm of a young heart. I was sincere then, as sincere 
I will be now. But these days have past. I have been tak- 
en away from those scenes, removed to this great city, intro- 
duced in society, and learned to look at, and to know life 
from a different stand-point. Do you see this scene before 
you ! Look around at the luxury so apparent here. See 
those many elegant young men, rich, good-looking, well edu- 
cated, posessed of every attraction t'hat could be desired and 
yet there is not one who would not willingly lay down his heart 
and riches to me, and offer me his hand in marriage, with 
which I could walk through life, the envied of many, but to 
be pitied by none. And do you see those many young 
ladies, many of them beautiful, rich, accomplished, worthy the 
admiration of any man ? And yet, there is not one among 
them who does not fear or envy me, who is not jealous of my 
power over the hearts of her admirers. Did you ever feel the 
magic voluptuousness of power? To be the absolute mon- 
arch of the fate of others! To rule, but not by force, but by 
the gift of beauty and your will. To be feared, to be envied, 
yea, to be hated, and yet to rule all, all, friends or enemies. 

Hen. And this is you! 

Anna. This is my position. I am the ruling belle of this 
city. See, Henry, this is life, this is pleasure, this is happi- 
ness. Oh, what a contrast there is between this and my 
school-day ideas, when a smile, a word, a walk, a look, would 
be the h eighth of my ambition. Henry, I have learned 
much since we parted, and I have changed accordingly. 

Hen. And your heart, your love? 

Anna. My love, my heart — I cherish them, as I cherish 



— 13— 

the dreams of my youth. Beautiful in their days, but the 
days are past. And now ruling here as a queen, you 
approach me with the reminisences of my school days and 
bring to my mind that a young girl did once love you and 
became your affianced. And you ask me to step down from 
my throne, abandon all present friends, forsake the splendor 
and luxury with which I am surrounded and to forsake riches, 
fortune, associations and power for your sake, so that I may 
become your wife in the humble cottage of a pauper and to 
be compelled to look up to those as my superiors, who are 
now my inferiors or equals, to envy those who now envy me? 
Henry, can you, do you ask this sacrifice. 

Hen. If it be a sacrifice, then no, nay, even if the abandon- 
ment of this splendor would cause you even one single tear or 
a single breath of regret, then, no, or if part only, the smallest 
fraction of what you have said even now, represented your 
true meaning, then, Anna, we would have to part. But it 
cannot, cannot be. That Anna whom I so fondly loved, whose 
image I have stowed in my heart, and which has been the 
guiding star of my life, cannot have changed into a cold 
hearted belle of society, treading under foot the best and 
holiest feeling implanted in the human heart, that of true, 
pure, self-sacrificing love. But Anna, do not trifle with me, 
see, I have nothing left but this, my hope and my love. I 
am a man and have manfully born all storms and shipwrecks, 
but I have never been deprived of my confidence and faith in 
you, and I do not know what would become of me, if this 
also should fail me. 

Anna. Henry, we are children no more. What I have 
said, I meant, and would have been compelled to advise you of 
it some other time. Why not now ? why permit you to 
deceive yourselves with dreams that will never become true, or 
hopes which can never be realised ? I feel that I was not born 
to seek and find my happiness within the narrow circle of 
family life, to perform household duties for a husband or to be 
happy in the smile of an infant. My nature is above this, it 



— i 4 — 

requires the admiration of many, it demands to rule my pro- 
per atmosphere in the one in which you see me now. Yours 
is different, our tastes, our views are the same no longer. 

Hen. Enough, Anna, I understand, you, this glittering has 
enthralled you, and the voice of your true and better nature 
is heard no longer. But the time may and will come, when 
you see the hollowness of all that you now admire, and you 
will awaken from your blissful dream and the artificial sum- 
mer of your fascination with its flowers, its butterflies and 
sunshine, will be followed by the winter of stern realities, cold, 
icy cold, as you believe yourselves now to be. You imagine 
you can despise love, but you are in error, it is stronger than you, 
it is part of human life to love, and without love, life itself, 
has but little value. In vain, will you seek happiness in power 
or in splendor — for happiness is not to be found there — it only 
lives in one's heart and at one's home and hearth — in the smile 
and confidence of a beloved wife or husband and in the innocent 
prattle and laugh of your children — all else is vanity, vain 
hollow, cold vanity — 

Anna. Your oratory, Mr. Randle, is very eloquent, but 
falls upon a very unappreciative audience. 

Hen. Pardon me, I forgot that I was addressing the belle 
of society, I imagined for a moment that I was speaking to 
my own, dear Anna. But I perceive that your present friends 
and admirers look with some astonishment at our prolonged 
interview, and I think, as we are simply acquaintances of for- 
mer years, and will be strangers in future, — 

Anna. True, very true, it is time to terminate this inter- 
view and so, to avoid all attention, and as the music is 
about to begin to play, you may lead me to the dance, after 
which, Mr. Randle — 

Hen. Then, Miss Prideall ! 

Both. Good Bye forever ! 

(Dance. Curtain falls.) 



— 15— 

ACT II. 

Scene I. 
Henry, alone. 

Hoi. I had become angry at, and despised my former 
friends for forsaking me in adversity, and I had only trusted 
in love. And now, where is the anchor to which I shall 
trust my faith in humanity, when love itself has also proven 
not to be able to resist the slight storm of adversity and ill 
fortune? What right did I have to rely on friends? 
They were simply companions of mine, thrown, by accident i 
together with me in the course of my life, independent of me 
as I was of them. But she, who had pledged me her entire 
self, she also knows me no more. Friendship, Love, what is 
the meaning of these words? Nothing, if not the love of one's 
self. Self-love. Egotism. She loved me, when she had but 
me to admire her, but me to rule; she forsakes me when she 
has many. Oh, it is a greater pleasure, a higher ambition to 
be the ruler of many, than to be all to one. Oh! Her 
reasoning is correct, her position is unassailable, her good 
sense so strong, that no room is left for her love. And yet, 
is human heart in woman, such a play thing, that it pleases 
her as long as she feels like playing with it, but of which she 
soon grows tired, and which she then discards or throws 
away, with no more regret than at the loss of her doll? Is 
everything what I heard of woman's noble nature, of her en- 
tire existence being wrapped up in love, of her self-sacrific- 
ing, devotional nature, which never shines more bright than in 
adversity, simply an idle tale, invented by the fertile brain of 
the poet ? 

Oh, that I had power to test it, that I had the means to probe 
your soul, to see whether you, Anna, are that being which 
you believe and represent yourselves to be. But it is not, it 
cannot be so. She is intoxicated with the splendor of her 



— 16— 

surroundings, she is dreaming a dream from which she is 
bound to awake. Oh! could I assist her, that I could show 
her the shallowness of her happiness, the insincerity of her 
so-called friends and save her from falling into this glittering 
abyss, which by dazzling splendour, seeks to conceal the hol- 
low, empty unhappiness which awaits its victims ! 

Scene i i. 
Henry and Charles. 

Chas. Why, who is this talking to himself, as if he could 
find no better company? Why, Henry, Henry! Is this you? 
How, in the name of common sense, do I find you here? I 
thought you were at the party at Prideall's. 

Hen. I was, and now I am here. Your prophecy has prov- 
en true, as all prophecies of evil generally do. The man, 
who thinks worst of human mankind, is the one who is al- 
ways right. And now, please leave me alone. 

Chas. No, indeed. I will not leave you alone. Come, 
forget what you cannot change, drown your sorrows in a glass 
of wine. 

Hen. No, I will not drown my sorrows and I will not for- 
get, but I will change it. I will draw the veil, that veil of 
gold and of splendor away from her present friends and sur- 
roundings, and I will lay bare to her the sickening corpse of 
egotism and of heartlessness. 

See, Charles, she is enthralled. Every one admires her, 
every one flatters her, every one seems to love her. And she 
believes all, and thinks she is happy. But I know her better 
than she does herself. And her heart is good and pure. 

Chas. And yet, she has— 

Hen. Yes, she has renounced me, she has virtually shown 
me the door. Our ties have been dissolved ; we are strang- 
ers, But I feel that I love her still, and what is more, that 
she is worthy of my love. But the witchcraft of money has 
poisoned her and she may be lost, and her noble nature may 



finally succumb. Oh, that I had money, that I had the 
power that money gives, that I could save her, or that I 
might have my revenge. 

Clias. Money, and what good would that do you, if she 
loves you no longer? 

Hen. But she does love. And if I was possessed of the 
means, and could meet her in the society she moves in I 
would soon find means to test her heart, to speak words to 
her, not of flattery and admiration, but words that would 
bring to her conscience, the fact, that though she may be 
the ruling belle who plays with hearts and all noble emotions 
of the human soul, yet that there is a nobler, a brighter sphere 
for a true woman, than to be a heartless coquette, and that 
not all men are playthings in the hands of even the ruling 
belle. I would succeed in awakning the better feelings of 
her soul, and save her from that abyss of heartlessness and 
coquettishness into which she has fallen; or if I was too late 
in that, I would have my revenge in simulating and pretend- 
ing to be one of her many victims, and discard her as she has 
discarded me. But, oh, where do I find the means? 

CJias. Well, I am sure I cannot tell you, for if I knew 
where to find money, I would have found it long ago. But 
hold, I have an idea, and that is such a strange thing with me 
that I am certain it must be a good one. This evening, in 
order to make an extra dollar or two, I am to wait on a com- 
pany of a few gentlemen. All of them very rich, and all of 
them of that kind called Speculators in Wall Street. It is a 
private meeting, and when wine or champagne has flown a 
little, they generally relate a great many stories of how for- 
tunes have been made. I do not understand half what they 
say but with you it may be different, and you may profit 
something by their experience. 

Hen. But is this a private meeting? 

Chas. Not private, any more than that they are among 
themselves, in a seperate room, and no one is permitted to 
interrupt them, except the waiter. 



Hen. But how could I gain admittance there? 

C/ias. Why, you will have to go as my assistant waiter! 

Hen. I ? 

CJias. Why yes ; or, are you too proud ? 

Hen. You are right, Charles. I have no occasion to be 
proud. Everything I had is lost, and it is only false pride 
not to accept your offer. I am at your service. 

CJias. Then let us hurry to put us into a suitable wait- 
er's suit for it is about time. 



Scene, hi. 

Henry and Charles, as Waiters. 
Mr. Prideall and others at a table. 

A. I wonder where Sharp stays. It is not usual with him 
not to be punctual. 

B. I really am astonished at his prolonged absence, he is 
the head and foot of our enterprise. 

C. He is a capital man and is bound to be a man of cap- 
ital. All brains and no heart, the very embodiment of spec- 
ulative genius. 

D. I believe he is detained by his charmer. Old man, 
you can congratulate yourselves on such a son-in-law. 

Prideall. What do you mean? I know nothing about a 
son-in-law. 

D. Do not simulate ; no secrets here ; it is well known 
that he is after your daughter, and if there is to be a match, 
you will be a lucky dog. 

A. Yes, indeed, but I expect he wants a good round sum 
of money along, for he is not a man whom beauty alone can 
capture. Beauty without money is rather a forlorn kind of 
deserted looking being, which money without beaut)- gets 
along very well. 



— i 9 — 

Prideall. Stop talking about things which do not concern 
you, and which are still in the future. Let us consider our 
business. 

A. Oh, here comes. Sharp. 



Scene iv. 
The Last and Sharp. 

Slip. Halloo, here I find all of you. Pardon me, gentle- 
men, pardon, that I have detained you so long. But it is all 
old Prideall's fault. What the deuce has he such a handsome 
daughter for? Here, Waiter, another bottle of champagne 
for me. I tell you, old man, she is charming. And this ev- 
ening, I could hardly separate myself from her. She was 
enchanting. She described to me how an old lover of her, a 
green country-man, who fell in love with her when she was 
in the academy in the country, had returned and intended to 
renew his old attachment, and take her out to his cottage to 
attend to his milk and butter. Ha, ha, the way she described 
that scene, and the manner in which she bowed him out doors 
was sublime. Old man you are not worth such a daughter. 
I tell you she must be mine, and if you were not so infernal- 
ly avaricious, we might arrange matters right away. 

(Henry lets waiter with bottle fall) 
(to the waiter?) Simpleton, what is the matter with you ? 

Chas., Excuse him, he is a new hand. 

Slip. Too stupid to be a waiter. 

Chas. I will discharge him. He is not fit, and was never 
cut out, to wait on such gentlemen like you. 

Prideall. Well, never mind that now. We will see at 
some other time, whether we can agree. Perhaps, if our 
speculation turns out well. 

Slip. How can that be otherwise. I tell you, I worked 
like a beaver. I have just returned this morning. I have 
been everywhere and have seen everybody. Everything is 



-20 — 



arranged. Our plan is bound to succeed, our strategy is sub- 
lime and to-morrow we may begin, provided you are all ready 
to fulfill your promises and keep mum, for secrecy is abso- 
lutely necessary to success. • 

A. We are ready, but let us know the particulars. 

Slip. I will for your own protection, so that you may not 
be misled if you see some strange events transpiring in the 
stock-market. But to know all, you cannot expect, for it is 
war that we are beginning, and as in war, only the command- 
ing officer knows fully all the details of his plan. You have 
selected me, and I must have your implicit confidence. 

Listen then. You all know the National Rail Road, with 
its immense capital and immense number of stock-holders 
dispersed through this entire country, and its comparatively 
small amount of debt. That, gentlemen is our point of at- 
tack. We will bear the stocks, and if it be down sufficiently 
we will purchase, bull it up and get control of it and thus not 
only realise a magnificent profit, but lay the basis for future 
operations. 

B. The National Rail Road ! But how is it possible to 
attack that, where so many are interested in its welfare. 

Slip. Just for that reason, the task is so much easier. It 
is one of these wonderful inventions, and grand institutions, 
called Corporations, where a thousand, or, as in this instance 
10,000 persons subscribe stock and become part owners. No 
one's part amounts to much, the total is immense, and this is 
all left to the control of 5 or 10 persons called Directors, who 
are magnates in power and wealth. Is it strange that they, 
who have become accustomed to such power and wealth, 
should attempt to maintain it, that they who handled it as if 
it were their own, would become accustomed to consider it 
as their own, and finally not only consider it, but to make it their 
own? And is it strange that when a plan is shown to them to 
perpetuate and increase their power and wealth they should not 



— 21 — 

at once grasp at it? Gents, some of the Directors of that Rail 
Road are our confederates and our allies, interested with us- 
aiding and assisting, so that we are certain to succeed. 

C. But still, I do not see how the stock is to be brought 
down. It is well known to be a prosperous road, and declar- 
ing good dividends. On what calculation do you base your 
plan ? 

Slip. The calculation is based upon that prominent feat- 
ure of human nature, to believe rather the evil than the good 
upon the suspicious minds of the multitude, aided by two 
grand additional powers whom we will enlist into our service 
the Press and Wall Street. 

The Press, which theoretically is called the palladium of 
liberty and to which the unsophisticated look up to for ad- 
vice and counsel, in the belief that it is conducted by those 
grand, self-sacrificing patriots, and philosophers, who study 
the welfare of the people, and attempt to ameliorate the 
condition of suffering humanity, who attack vice wherever 
they see it, and unravel the fine spun webs of conspirators 
and hold them up to public condemnation, who assist modest 
virtue and talents to rise and be appreciated and esteemed, 
and whose columns are always open to the persecuted, and 
are the asylum, as well as the weapon of the innocent. The 
Press, for which thousands of the noblest youths have sacri- 
ficed themselves, and for which, to defend its libery and in- 
dependence, thousands more stand ready to enlist. 

This press, this mighty engine for good, so salutary and 
absolutely indispensable to a free people, is still mightier 
when its liberty is perverted into libertinism, when it becomes 
the instrument of the demagogues, and instead of being the 
monitor and teacher, it becomes a mere business establish- 
ment, with the sole object of being a money-making institu- 
tion, Then it will turn its brains and its moral feelings into 
an article of merchandise, its influence on the public will be 
peddled around in the market, its columns will be at the dis- 
posal of the highest bidder, it will strike a bargain for the 



opportunity to deceive the public and sell the privilege to 
plunder it. For cash, it will denounce the most patriotic as 
a traitor, and praise to the skies the most treacherous villain r 
it will ridicule the great and wise, and will admire and 
applaud the platitudes of the most arrant fool, it will com- 
mend the most bare-faced fraud, and cry down the most 
benevolent and disinterested enterprise, with a sanctimonious 
air will it publish the moral sermon of a prominent preacher, 
in one column, while in the other, it will flame with the most 
immoral advertisement, it will denounce vice editorially, but 
in the same issue will it furnish a guide to the most infamous 
dens of infamy, it will slander and libel, it will carry suspicion 
and unhappiness into business circles and even into the sacred 
family household and destroy ties which only death should 
sever. 

And all this for cash. Because it speaks to thousands, be- 
cause it is the adviser and the guide of the public which 
trusts and believes in it, it is important to have it on our side 
and to control it. Gents, it is ours. The palladium of our 
liberty will be at our service to fleece the unwary and to en- 
rich the shrewd. The arrangements have been made, the 
writers engaged, the columns are at our disposal and the 
business arrangements completed. Thanks that there is a 
free and a venal press, it is the grandest auxiliary which the 
speculator possesses, second in importance not ^ven to Wall 
Street, 

Ah! Wall Street, this monetary centre, this market for ev- 
ery thing, real or imaginary, tangible or phantastical, where 
property is but a plaything, and value a ball which is tossed 
about at the whim of the speculator, where there is no heart 
which throbs with feeling, or a soul which glows with noble 
passion, but only a cool, calculating brain, which watches and 
measures and weighs and counts and reckons and thinks 
and spins the webs in which the unwary flies, dallying in the 
bright sunshine of prosperity, are caught, to yield their blood 
to the vigilant spider or cruel vampire. 



In his dark closet sits the cool speculator, but there is no cloud 
on the financial horizon, nor a complication in the business 
world, which he does not perceive; there is nothing which is 
not a factor in his enterprise, or which does not give food to 
his crafty calculation, whether it be love or hate, virtue or 
vice, whether it be the corruption of the statesman who sells 
his country, or betrays his constituents, or the patriotism of a 
subjugated people, which rises in arms against its oppressive 
tyrants, whether it be war, or pestilence, peace or prosperity, 
each the speculative genius sees and perceives, with no other 
sentiment than that of extracting from it, its influence upon 
the rise and fall of stock. In his conception, each deed, 
whether it be the most noble or depraved, has no other sig- 
nificance but that of an element likely to affect his 'bonds. 

He measures the products of the harvest and calculates 
how many ship-loads he must purchase in order to be able to 
form a corner, or to generate starvation, so that out of the 
suffering of the poor he may coin money to enrich himself, or 
he strides over the battle-field and counts the dead bodies 
with no other sensation but that this slaughter will increase 
the value of his investments. Or, he weaves a web from noth- 
ing, things without value suddenly become the ruling article 
in market, stocks which yesterday were offered by the thous- 
and at nothing suddenly rise to great value and are in vain 
sought for. There is no cause for this, but it is simply the 
work of the speculator who thus by his genius knows how to 
drain profit even from nothing. 

Oh, Wall Street, with its speculative men of genius, where 
an eternal war is raging for the possession of money, and 
where, as in war, everything is fair. The speculator knows 
no friends, no allies, no promises, no honor, he recognises 
no ties but those of self-interest. Friendship is an unknown 
sentiment to him, and mercy or generosity to his enemies is 
unheard of. Woe to the vanquished, wealth to the victor, the 
end justifies the means. 



—2 4 — 

Gents, our web has been woven, our battle array is formed 
our self-interest will keep us together. Each one has con- 
tributed his share, and expects to realise large profit from 
the investment. Let us not weaken and show mercy till ev- 
ery cent has been squeezed out, which our victims can yield. 

Gents, to-morrow you will hear some rumors about that 
Rail Road, They will circulate, and no one knows whence 
they come, or what they are. They are vague, they cannot 
be described, but they are there. And the next day the 
press, the newspapers, will begin to circulate them. Some of 
our employees will send communications to confirm them, 
or to make anxious inquiries, some others, paid by us, will 
contradict them, but in a manner which, in denying, affirms 
more than it denies. Stock-holders become anxious, two or 
three of our friends offer their stock in Wall Street at a low- 
price, it is purchased by others of our allies, the price is tele- 
graphed over the entire country. Hints are thrown out that 
a strong combination exists, inimical to the present manage- 
ment, and to break the road. Next day, our allies who purchas- 
ed the stock, are anxious to sell at a lower figure, and they are 
again, but with reluctance taken up by those of our friends 
who sold, no one knows, of course, that both sellers and 
purchasers are the same combination. Stock-holders become 
more anxious. They make inquiries of the Directors, of the 
Secretary. They will receive mysterious explanations, hopes 
for the best, shrugging of the shoulders, they will call on the 
Secretary for a statement, an abstract from the books. He 
unwillingly furnishes it to some, under the injunction of secrecy, 
the newspapers begin to be more bold, our paid writers call 
themselves Stock-holders, Friends of Fair Play, and all such, 
are vigorous and become daily more audacious in their at- 
tacks. 

The Telegraph spreads the news and the quotations every 
day throughout the entire country. Many offers for sale, few 
purchasers at lower and lower figures. Then some Directors 
will secretly offer their stock, but it leaks out, we all rush in, 



— 25— 

and offer large amounts, taking care to have our agents buy 
them in again, A panic comes in that stock. Everybody 
wants to save what he can, the sign is given, and our agents 
purchase all the stocks at a ridiculous low figure. In addi- 
tion, we had made contracts to deliver stock at the original 
high price at a certain time ; and we deliver them, or rather 
take the difference between that and the depreciated value. 
Then we make contracts to deliver us a large amount at such 
depreciated price. 

And now the time has come formatters to take a different 
turn. Instead of bears, we turn bulls. The report of the 
Secretary is contradicted, a true report is made, a conspiracy 
is charged, the Secretary is dismissed, a Dividend is declared, 
favorable reports, heretofore with held, are published, the 
Directors cause an investigation to be made. Everything is 
lovely, the writers in the press, hitherto the most savage, 
become gradually convinced that they were in error and mis- 
led, and confess the error of their ways, or become silent, 
all the stock offered is rapidly taken, our friends 
sell with the left and buy with the right hand, at increas- 
ing prices. Confidence is restored and prices assume their 
former standard, and we are the owners of a large major- 
ity of stocks, and controlling the road, all acquired at a 
ridiculous low price, besides having realized large profits on 
our puts and calls. 

A. But can you rely on the Directors and Secretary? 

Slip. The directors are our allies and part of the combi- 
nation or ring. And the Secretary can be relied on, for he is 
a man of family. When I first approached him, he indignantly 
refused to participate, and repulsed, with horror, the idea of 
furnishing a false statement. But when I threatened with an 
immediate and dishonorable discharge and reminded him of 
our influence and that we controlled the press and public 
opinion ; that we would disgrace him and render it impossible to 
obtain other employmemt, and when he thought of his loving 
wife and his little darling children, now living in comfort, but 



—26— 

whom he would surren 'er to poverty or starvation, he 
had to yield and he yielded. I promised him, after our coup 
d'etat, or stroke of policy, which necessitated his first furnishing 
a false statement and afterwards his dismissal for thus doing 
what we ordered him to do, another position, but, of course, 
this promise will not be kept, for he is a man who has scruples, 
and for such we have no use. ' 

A. And the other stock-holders have lost their property 
while we have gained it. 

Slip. They have parted with their stocks of their own free 
will, no one compelled them to sell. 

A. But they were induced to sell by misrepresentations 
and false statements, artfully contrived, intending to deceive. 
That is hardly honest. 

Slip. Honest, Honesty, my young and inexperienced 
triend. Honesty, a word used by every one and by every 
one in a different sense. In old-fashioned times it had a cer- 
tain definition; it meant: "Be just to every one. Do thou 
unto the other as thou wouldst be done by by him." 

In our time it means success. 

Young man, if you desire to become a speculator in Wall 
Street, a prince of stocks, a wealthy nabob, controlling stocks, 
bonds, rail-roads, banks, insurance companies and all other 
corporations, then discard and renounce those ancient prin- 
ciples, instilled into your youthful mind by your mother 
teaching you from the Bible. You were taught that we were 
all children of one father, all brothers and sisters to each oth- 
er, that you should love your neighbor as yourselves, and do 
good to those who hate you, and such like heresies. Our age 
has seen the error of such teachings. We are Darwinians, we 
are all animals of prey, we live on each other, the stronger 
destroys the weaker, and the weaker the one still weaker. 
Your property shall be mine if I can take it. But strength is 
no longer the mere muscular power. This was good enough 
for uncivilized countries, where the strongest became king; 
now, in order to become king, a money king, you need other 



—27— 

qualities. You must get rid of all that may encumber your 
strife for money, no weakness must attach to you, no heart 
must restrain you, no feelings hinder you, no sentimentalism 
about honesty, justice, honor, obstruct your course. You 
must have only one god and that is yourselves, only one friend 
and one love, and that is money. 

If you will not subscribe to this faith, then depart from Wall 
Street, give up speculations, never attemp to be a stock bro- 
ker, for only such may expect success. 

Turn your attention to the tilling of the soil, be satisfied in 
the good-will of your neighbors, be happy in the bosom of 
your family, follow the teachings of your mother, but of such 
stuff the millionaires of Wall Street are not made. 

But if you want money, and with it all its luxuries and al- 
lurements, then remain. 

A. Money I want. I remain. 

Shp. It is the only thing worth striving for. Money is 
power, money is virtue, money is brain, money is everything. 
Be successful, no matter how. Success, succeeds! No one 
cares how, every one cares whether you become rich. 

Gentlemen, if any one wishes to recede, it is still time ; let 
him say so now, but if you desire to accumulate wealth and 
care not how, remain. 

[All remain.) 

Gents, to-morrow the battle commences. Be prepared. 
Stand together, for in union there is strength. Every even- 
ing we will gather here to compare notes and receive in- 
structions. Bvt now let us depart and meet to-morrow, 
ready for the affray. 

[All off, exept Charles and Henry.) 



—28- 



SCENE V. 

Henry and Charles. 

Chas. They are gone. Now, Henry, what do you 
think ? 

Hen. I have heard them, and a new light has dawned 
on me. Those men are not men, they are what they have said, 
they are animals of prey, and as animals of prey they should 
be treated. Do not complain, if the weapons with which 
you fight should be turned against you, do not complain if 
your friends, and your allies forsake you, for they have no 
tie, except that of self interest. I know your plans, and 
knowledge is power. Charles, it is a great task, it is a holy 
task to destroy them, to meet them on the battle-ground and 
to vanquish. And you, Anna, to fall into such hands. Oh, 
I would be a worthy associate of them, were I to hesitate for a 
minute to task every nerve and every fibre of my brain to 
demolish them. Anna, I will save you by destroying them. 
Let the battle commence. I know your designs, and I will 

conquer. 

( Curtain falls. ) 



—2 9 — 

ACT III. 
Scene I. 

C harles y alone. 

i lias. Well, I always thought I was cut out for a rich 
man, and now this proves it. I am admirably adapted to it, 
and really it is not very hard. All that you need to be rich 
is plenty of money, and that I am supplied with, thanks to 
that wonderful ingenious speculation of mine, which I do not 
understand in the least, and I can carry and behave myself 
as a rich gentleman, as if I had been born to it, and people 
begin to see and know it too. I am no longer Mr. Butterbee, 
plain Butterbee, or Charley, damned blockhead, or sweet 
names like that. No, sir! I am known now only and desig- 
nated as the distinguished Mr. Butterbee, our worthy citizen, 
in whom the city feels a pride, or the Honorable Mr. But- 
terbee, and so forth. The newspapers watch my com- 
ing and my going. The men bow, the ladies smile and the 
children point at me and even my former friend, the boot- 
black, has forgotten to swear at me, and everybody has dis- 
covered wonderful traits and qualities in me, ever since I and 
Henry made that wonderful speculation, of which I know 
nothing and understand still less. Some say that I am a ge- 
nius, others that I am a great financier, still others that I am 
a statesman, but all want money, Letters, I receive by the 
hundred, invitations by the thousands. And yet, there is still 
a piece of the old Charlie in me. I cannot forget my little 
sweet Mary. I have not seen her for some time, because^I 
wished to surprise her, and I have not told her yet for whom 
I have bought and furnished this house. And yet, for whom 
should it be, except for her? But now everything is about 
done and I will invite her here. I will show her all and then 
she will have no excuse. She always said, when I spoke of 
marrying : Wait, Charlie, till we have saved some money, but 



—30— 

now, she cannot say this any more, and, I will insist on mak- 
ing her my dear little wife, and become the head of a family 
Yes, I will. 

[Enter Letter Carrier, who hands him some letters^ 

Oh, what a pile of letters. I wonder whether people ex- 
pect I should read them all? Of course, they are all of the 
old style. Here is one from a bank. Let us see ; 
(7'^W.?)" Honorable Mr. Butterbee, Dear Sir." How do they 
know that I am honorable, anyhow? What does a Bank 
Director of to-day know about being honorable, that is what 
I would like to know, {reads) "The extraordinary financial 
genius, which you possess, has attracted our attention for a 
long while" — A long while, yes indeed. If I had brought a 
$50 bill to their counter a few days ago, they would have 
suspected me of having stolen it, "and at our election for di- 
rectors yesterday, we have selected you as one of our nunr- 
ber. Having heretofore conducted your business with us. 
Yes, that is true. I once took a five-dollar bill over there 
and asked whether it was counterfeit, that is the whole -of 
the business I ever did there, "we trust, that in future, our 
relations may become still more friendly." Well, I wish they 
had shown their friendship a little earlier, when I needed it 
"As you are, no doubt, aware, it will be necessary for you in 
order to act as Director, to own some stock in the bank and 
we have therefore set aside 100 shares, and hope that you 
will step over to our office to receive your certificate and 
draw your check for the amount." Of course, I thought so, 
they want money. Gentlemen, I am afraid you have discov- 
ered my financial genius too late, or I have discovered yours 
too soon. I hardly think I will draw that check. 

Now, what is this? A letter to contribute to the expense of 
a hall, to hear a lecture on female suffrage. Heavens, what 
do we men have to suffer from females already, and now it is 
intended to legalize even the female suffrage, a new disease 
But what can we do, I suppose I will have to contribute. Here 
— {it knocks.) Come in. 



—3i — 
Scene 11. 

Shrewd. Charles. 

S. Have I the honor to see before me the distinguished 
and honorable Mr. Charles Butterbee? 

Chas. That is my name. 

S. Then sir, let me first express my admiration for your 
world conquering genius. 

Chas. Never mind. Save your breath in calling me such 
names. I am used to this, proceed with your business 
and stop with Financial Sun, Star of the West and the like 
nonsense. 

5. Sir, your modesty is equal to your merit. 
Chas. That may all be, but I want to know what you 
want. 

S. (In a whisper, confidentially,) What do you think of 
Erie, what of North Western? 

Chas. Really I think nothing. 

vS. Nothing, good, very good. I see. 

Chas. Well, what do you see? I see nothing. 

5. You see nothing, good, very good, good indeed, ha, ha, 
really you see nothing, but you shall see. But what do you 
suppose the bears will do with the bulls at the next battle 
about Northern. 

Chas. Why if it comes to a battle and if the bears will 
get a good hold of the bulls and the bulls do not know how 
to defend themselves, I should judge the bears will rather 
squeeze the bulls. 

S. Squeeze them, good, very good, and what would you 
rather be, a bull or a bear? 

Chas. I ? I would rather be a financier, I like it better 
than to be either. 

6". A financier, good, very good, really excellent. I see, 
I see. 



—32— 

CJias. Now, my good friend, tell me what do you see and 
where do you see it, I really see nothing, 

S. Good again, but one more question. Would you 
rather squeeze or be squeezed ? 

Chas.. My friend, if it came to that, I am rather good at 
squeezing, and I like it too, and I will immediately prove it 
to you, unless you will at last inform me of your business. 

5. But my dear sir, did you not understand me? I am a 
Wall Street speculator, and desire to form an alliance with 
you and be informed of the plan of your next operation in Wall 
Street stocks. Of course I will make it your interest to give 
me a point. 

Chas. Oh, now 1 see, or rather I do not see, I mean about 
the interest. 

5". That is very good again. But as I got the desired in- 
formation and will act accordingly. You may draw on me 
for your kindness. I have no doubt, that acting on your ad- 
vice, I will realize tenfold on the investment, for I consider 
you as the shrewdest man of all shrewd men. I will hurry to 
make the necessary investment. My clear Mr. Butterbee. 
good-bye. 

Chas. Well now, it appears that I have given this man 
some good advice without knowing anything about it. But 
I would really like to know myself what it was. O, heavens 
what a smart man a rich man is, without trouble and without 
the slightest suspicion of it. 

{Enter servant^) Two ladies desire to see you. 

Chas. You may show them in. Ladies? That is some- 
thing new. 



—33— 
Scene, hi. 

Mary. Clara. Charles. 

Alary. Mr Butterbee, let me introduce you to Mrs. Clara 
Raftus, who with me, has called on you for some assistance. 

CJias. (Aside) She calls me Mr Butterbee. Now wait, I 
will have my revenge.) Mrs. Raftus, I am happy to meet 
you. Would you be seated? I feel highly flattered by your 
visit and if I can serve such beautiful ladies — 

Mary. Mrs. Raftus and I have constituted ourselves as a 
committee, to request your assistance to relieve an unfortu- 
nate family of your acquaintance, from the effects of a great 
misfortune, which has just befallen them. 

Clias. A family of my acquaintance ? Who can that be? 

Mary. Mrs. Lamb, you surely know her. 

Ckas. Lamb ? Lamb ? I really do not recollect. Does 
she belong to the Bulls or Bears? 

Mary. What do you mean ? You certainly know Mrs. 
Lamb, the widowed mother of Jim, the butcher boy, who 
used to bring the meat to us, and whom you so frequently 
saw at our house, when you called there. 

Mrs. Raftus. I have certainly seen you speak frequently 
to her and him. 

Chas. Really, I do not think I remember, and it is rather 
a strange presumption to ask a rich man to remember ac- 
quaintance of poorer days. My mind is taken up entirely 
with other and more important matters. The great specula- 
tions, the continual watching of stocks, the Northern, the 
Southern, the Bulls, the Bears, the longs, the shorts and all 
the other cattle have nearly destroyed my memory. 

Mary. Well, if you do not wish to recollect him it makes no 
difference. You may contribute something, notwithstanding 
your failure of memory. We know Jimmie, he is only fifteen 
years old and the only support of his widowed mother and 
four other small brothers and sisters. 



—34— 

Yesterday, he was gored by a wild bull and is lying very 
sick at home. His mother has nothing and the children are 
in want, and so we came to you for assistance. 

CJias. My dear ladies, I feel highly flattered by your con- 
fidence and your coming here, but if I had to look out for all 
Jims or butcher boys, I would have to neglect much more 
important matters in Wall Street. 

But as you seem to take such a deep interest in him, I can 
not, on account of your beautiful eyes, refuse to give some- 
thing. Here, take this five-dollar bill, and if I could have 
the assurance that those rosy lips of yours would not deny a 
kiss, I certainly would make it ten-fold as much. 

[makes a gesture, as if he wanted to kiss her.) 

Alary. Away, sir ! Take your filthy money and hug it to 
your heart. 

Come, Mrs. Raftus, away from such a man, whose money 
has caused him to lose not only his memory, but every sen- 
timent of honour. 

Chas. [Catches hold of her hand as she is going,) Mary, 
my own dear Mary. You really take my dissembling for re- 
ality, you really could o misunderstand me ? But why did 
you call me Mr. Butterbee ? Oh, how nasty that name 
sounds in my ears when spoken by your lips, that had accus- 
tomed me to being called only Charles, or Dear Charlie. 
And I thought I would have my revenge for not calling me 
as usual, and for your strange behavior in coming to me as if 
you were some strange lady and not my own dear little Mary 
and soon to be my wife. 

And so poor Jimmie was gored by a bull. Oh, those bears 
and bulls, there are no nastier creatures any where, nor more 
blood-thirsty, I assure you. 

Now, John, my hat, quick. 

No, Mary, I will not send any money. I am certain, poor 
Jimmie will be glad to see me, I will go myself, and if the 



—35— 

ladies have no objections, I will accompany them there, and 
I will see that he is properly attended to. Do not trouble 
yourselves further about him. 

And now, my dear Mrs. Raftus, let me explain, for my con- 
duct must appear strange to you. This is my dear Mary, 
my bride, and this house I had fixed up and intended to sur- 
prise her with it and that is the only reason I did not call on 
her for several days. I was here ail the time hurrying up the 
workmen. But now everything is done and if Mary is willing 
we will get married right away. 

And now, Mary dear, shall I have a kiss? 
(Kisses her.) 

And now, off to poor Jimmie. 

( Takes hold of her and walks off hurr idly.) 



Scene, iv. 
Henry enters, afterwards Sharp. 

Hen. Charles is not here. It is strange that he is out al- 
ready, when he knows I generally come about this time, — 
{Servant bring card and hands it to Henry) Mr. Sharp desires 
to see Mr. Henry Randle for a few minutes. 

What can this mean ? (to the servant) Let him enter. 

Slip. Mr. Randle, I come to see you on a small matter of 
business. 

Hen. With me, sir? business? 

Slip. Nothing else, and as I was informed that you could 
generally be found here at your friend's house, I took the 
liberty of calling here. My business relates to a simple ex- 
change of papers. 

Hen. Exchange of papers? I do not comprehend you. 

Slip. I think you will soon understand. You reccollect 
that unfortunate day, at least unfortunate for me, on which 
all my calculations failed or were defeated by your superior 
skill ? 



- 3 6- 

Hen. Proceed, sir. 

Slip. On that day, I lost not only a very large amount of 
money, but in addition, my obligations and financial notes had 
to be issued to cover my losses, and they are held by you, if I 
am not mistaken. 

Hen. You are correct, proceed. 

Slip. And I hold other papers, in which you have an inter- 
est, and these, I wish to mutually exchange. 

Hen. You hold papers of mine ? Impossible, I have no 
papers out. 

Slip Not papers of yours, exactly, and I did not say so, 
nor are they papers which are generally considered as nego- 
tiable or commercial, and yet which are of great interest to 
you, I have no doubt; and papers which you may deem val- 
uable. 

Hen. I still am not able to comprehend you. Please ex- 
plain. 

Slip. I will. Two years ago, after Miss Anna Prideall 
left the academy where she was educated, I had the good 
fortune to become acquainted with her. Our relations, in the 
course of time, grew friendly, I may say, very friendly. I 
admired her, and had it not been for that unfortunate day, so 
disastrous to her father and myself, our relations would 
probably have become still more intimate. In short, I ex- 
pected to become her husband. 

Hen. Enough of that, and come to your business. 
Slip I am coming to it rapidly. You may imagine that 
during these two years, we sometimes, and latterly, frequently 
exchanged letters, notes, invitations, etc., and I hold these 
papers still. 

Hen. And these papers? 

Slip. And these papers and letters of Miss Anna Prideall 
I offer to exchange for those of mine which you hold. 

Hen. Then I understand you, that those letters of that 
lady, written to you in confidence as a friend, or perhaps, as 
your affianced, you offer to sell. 



—37— 

Shp. Not of my friend, or affianced. Our relations have 
ceased. 

Hen. Ceased, and why? 

Shp. Why ? it certainly cannot be expected that now 
everything being changed, I alone should remain constant 
and the same. 

Hen. But who and what has changed? 

Shp. Why, sir, you certainly are aware of the radical 
change in her father's fortune, that he is now only attempt- 
ing to save appearances, for the purpose probably of endeav- 
oring in that way to obtain some further credit, or to catch a 
rich son-in-law, and in that manner to come to the surface 
again. But he is hopelessly gone and it is a question only of 
time, when the bubble will burst. 

Hen. Then the change in her father's fortune has made 
the change in you ? 

Shp. Of course, what else could be expected ? If I bar- 
gain for a diamond ring, I will certainly not take a ring with- 
out a diamond. That would certainly be very unbusiness 
like. 

Hen. And you consider the wealth of her father, which 
would go to her, as the diamond and her as the ring? 

Shp. I certainly do consider wealth as the principal thing 
I am young, I am ambitious. Notwithstanding my temporary 
reverse, my prospects are bright, and I certainly will not sac- 
rifice them and myself for a mere sentiment. 

Shp. And so you come here now, to realize on those 

papers, which her confidence in your honor, entrusted to you? 

Shp. My dear : ir, business is business, and there is no 

honour in business, at least, not in that of Wall Street. Every 

thing has its value, at the proper time. 

Hen. But of what value can these papers be ? And why 
do you apply to me to consummate this strange transaction? 
Shp. Let me answer by citing to you what a lawyer once 
said to me, in reference to a law, the meaning of which ap- 
peared plain and simple. "There is nothing," he says, "in 



-.38- 

the letter or spirit of the law, but everything depends upon 
the construction." And you will remember the saying of a 
great politician : 'Give me three lines written by my enemy, 
however innocent they may appear, and I will twist a rope 
out of them with which I will hang him, or that of the other ; 
"Oh, that my enemy had written me a letter! " 

In my hands, these letters may be dangerous instruments, 
if explained and commented upon by me, and woman's repu- 
tation is but a tender flower, and as you were once her affi- 
anced, and perhaps still love — 

Hen. Silence, sir, not another word ! I will make the ex- 
change of papers which you propose, but mark you, sir, I 
want every line which you ever received from her. 

Slip. Of course, they are all here. 

Hen. And you shall have every one of your papers. 

Here they are. 

Slip. And here all of mine. 

Hen. And now, sir, permit me to say that you are an in- 
famous scoundrel, and I would feci myself dishonoured, were 
the heel of my boot to touch you. 

Slip. Well, these are your peculiar business views. Mine 
are different. With us financiers, everything has a cash 
value. 

Hen. With one exception, and that is that neither you nor 
your brother financiers, like you, have any value, neither cash 
moral or otherwise. Out of here, and never let me meet you 
again. 

(Sdp. goes off.) 

Hen. [alone,) And this is the man, nay, the individual, for 
whom you forsook me. Oh, Anna, what a good fortune it 
was for you, that bad fortune befel your father, so that you 
were saved from those clutches ! Oh, if I could only bring 
you to recognize how false your position, and how ill you are 
adapted to your present associates ! 

(Boy brings note.) 



—39— 

A note from Mr. Prideall? What can it be? An invita- 
tion to a party to be given at his house. Oh, 1 perceive! 
The ties which were sundered are to be woven again. The 
poor Henry Randle was ignominiously shown the door, the 
rich one is recalled. But I will go. The hour looked for has 
arrived. My time has come. May fortune assist me in wip- 
ing away the cobwebs which flattery and adulation have 
woven around her pure heart and noble nature, so that I may 
once more see her as my own, true, beloved Anna. 
[Curtain falls.) 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. 

Parlour at Prideall 's House. 
Mr. Prideall and Anna. 

Prideall. Well, everything is prepared, and nearly all 
guests have already appeared except Mr. Randle and his 
friend. I hope he will not fail us. 

Anna. And yet, I fear it. He was too much offended. 

P. Then everything would have been done in vain, for on 
his account solely have I arranged this entertainment. 

Anna. On his account alone ? 

P. Yes, for him solely. Anna, you seem to be one of the 
very few who does not know what all our acquaintances and 
friends either know or strongly suspect. It is time that you 
especially be informed of the true state of affairs, so that you 
may act accordingly. 



— 40— 

You may think that it is simply a good-natured compli- 
ance on my part with your wishes, that I have arranged this 
festival and caused Mr. Randle to be invited and have spec- 
ially requested him to come. Know now, that this is not so 
and that this action of mine sprung from the motive, of mak- 
ing the last attempt of being saved from the ruin which now 
threatens me. 

Anna. Ruin ! 

P. Yes, ruin. Know that the misfortune in my specula- 
tions of late, has taken all what I possessed from me, that it 
leaves me largely in debt, that all my resources are exhausted 
and that all my friends have been resorted to, that all this 
splendour with which you see us surrounded this evening is 
borrowed, and that unless assistance is procured to-night, that 
to-morrow it will give way to the most abject poverty. 

Anna. Father, what do you say ? Is there no avenue of 
escape, no prospect, no help? Have you seen Mr. Sharp? 
P. Mr. Sharp, he is a man of businese, he is ruined him- 
self and if he were not, his rules of business require that he 
should not associate with bankrupts. It would damage his 
standing and affect his credit. 

Anna. Impossible, our best friend ! 
P. Friendship among speculators, among Wall Street 
business men, what does it amount to ? It is nothing but 
self-interest. 

He knows my financial condition, and therefore he has of 
late both shunned you and me. He has kept aloof from this 
house, and even this evening, he is absent, although invited, 
and he does not even observe the usual courtesy of sending 
an excuse. He admired you, it is true, but when my money 
took wings, his affection for you followed, and even in the 
days of my prosperity, he was bargaining and trading for the 
amount of your dowry. 

Anna. Oh, I suspected it ! And is there no help what- 
ever? 

P. I have only one hope, and that rests upon you. 



— 4 i — 

Anna. Upon me? 
P Upon you. Mr. Randle is an old admirer of yours. 
True, he was rejected by you and treated contemptuously, 
but his love for you is strong and has not been wholly eradi- 
cated, but must have survived. I have arranged this part) 
this evening, in order to have him come here, so as to give 
him an opportunity to again meet you, and to revive old 
recollections and if possible to revive his love and affection- 
He alone can help, Since the day of his wonderful success, 
in which he outgeneraled the shrewdest speculators, his name 
is gilt-edged. If he will assist me, or endorse for me, I can 
reverse the current of adversity, and once more recover my- 
self. And you must help me. 

Anna. I should help! And how can I? 

P. Treat him friendly, make him forget your last behavior 
towards him. Use all of those female arts which all women 
instinctively know so well, coquette with him, let him again 
fall in love with you, appeal to him, if everything else fails, 
but never forget, that without his assistance we are lost and 
disgraced. 

Anna. O, father, what do you ask of your daughter! 

P. Nothing, but what alone will save us. 

And Heaven be praised, here he comes. 

Scene ii. 
The Last and Henry and Charles. 

P. Oh. Mr. Randle, I am happy to meet you. 

Hen. Mr. Prideall, Miss Prideall, {bowing) 

Permit me to introduce to you my friend, Charles Butter- 
bee. 

Chas. I am happy to make the acquaintance of the friends 
of my friend. 

Anna. And I welcome you to this house. The friends of 
Mr. Randle are especially welcome. 

P. And I hope that this evening will be but the beginning 
of a long and better acquaintance and friendship. 



—42— 

But now, the duties of landlord call me and I must leave 
you. My daughter, as Mr. Randle and you are old friends, 
I will leave him in your care. ( They doze and walk off to- 
gether^) Mr. Butterbee, I will also provide you with a charm- 
ing cicerone. I see Miss Helen Scruggs approaching. For- 
tune favours you, Mr. Butterbee, I will place you in her care. 
(To Miss Helen) Miss Helen, allow me to introduce to your 
kind attention, my friend, Mr Charles Butterbee, and I beg, 
as a favour, that you will endeavor to make this evening 
pleasant for him, as it is the first time he honours us with his 
presence. Mr. Butterbee, Miss Helen (introducing them.) 
(Pride all goes off.) 
Chas. Mr. Prideall is very kind to me, to leave me in your 
charge, but very unkind to put such a burden upon you. 

Helen. I hope, that upon better acquaintance, this charge 
will become a pleasure to both. This is the first time I see 
you in one of our circles. 

Chas. It is the first time that I have attended any party 
here. 

Helen. And how do you enjoy it? 

Chas. Judging from the society one meets here, (boxving to 
her) I am delighted. 

Helen. Very complimentary, indeed. I am obliged. But 
why did I not have the p'easure of meeting you here before? 
Chas. Circumstances, over which I had no control, have 
prevented it. The fact is, Miss Scruggs, I was never invited 
before, and that was probably owing to the slight circum- 
stance, that until recently, I was not in a position to be invit- 
ed, for I am informed that this distinguished society is 
composed only of those who enjoy the distinction of belong- 
ing to the aristocracy or moneyed part of this universe. 

Helen. Indeed, this circle is very exclusive and select. We 
are very particular in seeing that no one is admitted, but 
whose wealth and position entitles him to this distinction. 
We take pride in having the most expensive toilettes and the 
most recherche of everything. 



—43— 

Clias. Oh, I am satisfied of it. I have frequently read 
descriptions of these parties, in the newspapers, and my heart 
yearned to be able once to see those beautiful costumes 
which I saw so fully described in the papers. Indeed, my 
expectations are surpassed. The splendour dazzles me and 
it is not to be wondered, that in the admiration for and de- 
scription of those beautiful costumes, the parties who wear 
them are so frequently forgotten and over-looked. From the 
descriptions I read, I have always believed that these distin- 
guished parties were made up of costumes and toilettes, but 
I am happy to perceive that there are still more charming 
objects here, and who are still more worthy of admiration. 

{bowing?) 
Helen. I am afraid you are sarcastic. 
{Promenading off.) 



Scene, hi. 

Henry and Anna. [Promenading] 

Anna. And now, that we have met again, let me confess, 
that there is one recollection which troubles me. 

Hen. Oh, do not speak of it. 

Anna. But I must. I was surprised, on that evening,, by 
your unexpected appearance. I was over-whelmed. I had 
no time to think. I acted unworthily of you and me. Can 
you forget and forgive ? 

Hen. To forget is not in my power, and to forgive? I have 
nothing to forgive. It was not your better nature, which 
spoke, it was not that Anna whom I have known so long and 
loved so well. 

A. No, it was not. It was the conceited child of fortune. 
But that Anna, whom once you knew so well, still lives, and 
I hope, the old friends have again fo.und each other and may 
continue to be such. 



—44- 



And let me confess, that when I perceived your form dis- 
appearing, a cold chill and a melancholy feeling came over 
me, such as will befall one when a dear friend takes his 
departure. 

Hen. And yet, notwithstanding your melancholy, you felt 
sufficiently elated in spirits to relate to Mr Sharp the laugh- 
able story of the old country lover, who had come to remind 
you of your plighted faith and to ask you to return with him 
to his country village. 

A. Then he has informed you? 

Hen. He is innocent of that. He only spoke of it public- 
ly at a wine-party, in the presence of your father and others, 
and both you and he were greatly applauded, he, for the able 
manner in relating the story and mimicking the awkward 
manner of the country cousin, and you, for the distinguished 
and high-toned air, with which you bowed that impudent 
countryman out of doors. 

Anna.. Oh, Henry, forgive me, and no doubt, but Mr. 
Sharp has distorted and exaggerated. But believe me, that 
while on that evening, I could and did stifle the inmost voice 
which spoke so loudly in your favour, it has since made itself 
heard, and unconsciously my heart began to rebel, and it in- 
voluntarily compared you with all others, and it is but jus- 
tice to say, that this comparison did not result to your dis- 
advantage. 

Henry, let me once more offer to you the only apology, 
which I am able to make, that of freely confessing my fault 
and to ask your forgiveness. 

And now, Henry, that fortune has again favoured you and 
the road lies open before you, by which you can attain that 
position to which your education and talents entitle you, let 
me be your friend and your guide. Let your pride be grati- 
fied and your revenge be complete, by being called back by 



-45— 



the one who discarded you, and be led forth by the hand 
which repelled you. Let me introduce you to this society, to 
our circles, for it was I who excluded you, and believe me, 
that in this humiliation, I will feel more proud than ever. 

Hen. No, Anna, excuse me. There is no affinity between 
this society and me. 

Anna. No affinity? But, Henry, you certainly have am- 
bition. This city is the field where it can be gratified. An 
introduction into these circles will give you the key to open 
all doors to success. 

You, Hen y, are like me. You also were not created to live 
in obscurity, to modestly pass your days in a small village, 
surrounded by well-meaning but plain neighbors. Your des- 
tined place is the arena where your talents may be appreciat- 
ed, where your ambition may be gratified and where you may 
lead those whom it is an honour to lead. Your place is this 
city, it is this society ! Come, let me guide you, let me intro- 
duce you to this brilliant assemblage, which will open a new 
world to you, and to which you will be an ornament and 
destined to occupy the front rank. 

Hen. Oh, Anna, cease to tempt me, cease to thrust this 
glittering phantom of the grand world and of these select cir- 
cles before me. 

I know how cold it is and how hollow. It is a shadow 
without substance, it is an ignis fatuus which deceives you 
with its light and leads you astray from true and real happi- 
ness. It holds forth promises which it never fulfils, it shows 
you a land which you are never destined to enter. 

Oh, Anna, look at it and ask your own heart: What hap- 
piness does it, what happiness can it give you, which will 
compare with that which pervaded our hearts, when first we 
confessed our love. Think of that unalloyed bliss, think of 
the days of our love, and of their true, deep, unclouded, se- 



rene happiness, and then consider this mocking farce and 
hollow pretence, which attempts to pass this eternaljealousy 
and envy, this attempt to out-shine the other, as happiness 
and bliss, 

No. Anna, I have nothing in common with this grand 
world. 

But you have appealed to my ambition and you have spo- 
ken of yours. I confess that I was ambitious, and it was to 
come here and to find you as my love, unchanged and unal- 
tered, in all the simplicity of innocent youth, and then to take 
you back to the spot where first we met, to return with you 
to the place where we exchanged our vows of unalterable love. 
I had hoped that you would abandon this glittering splendour, 
forsake these false hearts, spurn these sycophants and be 
mine, my own loivng Anna. I had thought that your heart was 
so large and your affection and love so great that you would 
not consider it a sacrifice to share my lot and to be my own, 
in wealth as in poverty. 

It is with sadness that I find that I am mistaken, that you 
prefer the admiration of many and that you care nothing to 
be all to one. You have said that we have found each other. 
True, but only to separate once more. 
Miss Prideall, let me speak candidly now. 
Your views of life and mine are different. You are 
educated to value only splendour and riches. You place 
your happiness in the envy of others, you despise the modest 
and unassuming walks of life, I have learned, by hard expe- 
rience, that all these are mere shadows, and I prefer a mod- 
est, unassuming home to all this luxury. A chasm separates 
us, over which there is no connecting bridge. Friendship 
requires a harmony of feelings and tastes, which we possess 
no more. Our views of life are different, our associates and 
friends could not be the same. 

I would not move in these circles, for I despise them as 
hollow farces. You would be unhappy without them. 



—47— 

How could you be happy if you were deprived of your ac- 
customed admiration ;md adulation? On these you staked 
your fate, and my friendship and love have been trodden 
down by you, in the mad desire to rule as a Belle, and to be 
the envied of all such creatures as here surround you, and 
whose admiration or envy is equally contemptible. And 
these you call your friends, For these you have forsaken a 
nobler and a better heart, for these you have sacrificed my 
love and my devotion. 

Anna. Oh, you are cruel ! Thus to upbraid me with the 
error of one hour. 

Hen. It was not the error of one hour. It was your pres- 
ent true nature, which spoke to me on that occasion. Oh, 
that you would even now, yet, recognize the' true feature of 
your surroundings and escape from the allurements of the sy- 
ren-like song of these flatterers, who would desert you as 
soon as misfortune would be your lot. 

Anna. True, but too true ! 

Hen. What is this circle of selected society but a meeting 
of merchants, ever ready to buy and sell and dealing in ev- 
erything which may promise profit? What is friendship to 
them, but an article of merchandise, love but a promise of 
'profit, honour but an empty name? 

Anna. You go too far. Certainly the possession of wealth 
is not a crime, and the noblest qualities of human nature are 
often allied with the gift of fortune. 

Hen. True, but when the love of money has become so 
strong that it is not only the object of a laudable ambition, 
but is the sole ambition and the goal and end of all aspira- 
tions, when the lust for money and riches is the over-shad- 
owing passion which permits no other quality to exist. 

Then it kills all noble sentiments and becomes a weed, 
which with its poisonous atmosphere which it generates des- 
troys all flowers of the heart and all noble emotionsof the soul. 
, The fertile brain of the speculator sees money everywhere, 



- 4 8- 

in each word which friendship has spoken, in each line, that 
has been written in confidence. The vile serpent infuses its 
poison of suspicion and of malicious construction into every 
writing or letter in order to give it a cash value and to yield 
profit. Nothing is sacred from the touch of these men, not 
even the purity of a virgin, which they will knowingly slan- 
der, in order to be able to transmute it into cash. 

Anna. Oh, this certainly is not, cannot be ! It is a pic- 
ture of your imagination. 

Hen. It can be, and it is. I select that man whom you 
selected, and who, most of all, enjoyed your friendship and 
confidence. 

Anna. Mr. Sharp? And what with him ? 

Hen. I mean him. Here, take these letters. They are 
yours, addressed to him. I return them unread. 

Anna. These, my letters in your hands ! How is this 
possible ? 

Hen. Possible! Why, it is very natural. Mr. Sharp 
knew I had some papers of his, notes and so forth. He had 
these papers of yours. What was more natural but that he 
should propose an exchange ? In his eyes, it was nothing 
more than an every day transaction, a shrewd business spec- 
ulation, a mere exchange of marketable papers. 

Anna. On, what infamy ! 

But here, take these letters and read them. I have noth- 
ing to conceal, nothing to be ashamed of, except that I once 
called such a creature my friend. 

Hen. No, I will not touch them again and your assurance 
is unnecessary. 1 have never given room to any opinion, in- 
compatible with respect. But I see your other friends are 
watching us. Our conversation is taking too much time, for 
the rules of polite society permit only a limited period to a 
mere acquaintance. Permit me therefore to ask of you the 
honour of leading you to the ball-room (or a dance,) after 
which, as the object of my visit has been accomplished, I 
will retire. 



—49— 

Scene iv. 

Charles and Helen. 
{Promenading?) 

Chas. Oh, see my friend, Henry, with Miss Prideall. 

What a handsome couple ! They seem admirably to be 
adapted to each other. 

Helen. Well, I understood, they were once engaged, but 
that she in her haughtiness, dissolved the engagement on ac- 
count of his poverty, but nov she seems very anxious to cap- 
tivate him once more. Do you notice how she is coquetting 
with him ! But I hope he is too shrewd to be caught in her 
meshes again. 

Chas. But why? 

Heleti. Why ? do you not know what is an open secret, 
that her father is ruined and bankrupt? 

Chas. But what difference does that make ? If they love 
each other, why should her father's poverty be an obstacle ? 

H. Love each other. She has no love for him, she loves 
his money and that is all she is after. Oh, I hope that she 
will not succeed, because I would hate to see him, who 
seems to be such a fine gentleman, captivated by that haugh- 
ty coquette. I never speak ill of my friends, but truth is 
truth, and if you knew what a haughty, self-conceited co- 
quetish creature she is, you would warn your friend of her 
wiles and ways, as I think it your duty to do, as his friend. 
Oh, all of her friends would enjoy her humiliation and fall. 

Chas. Out of friendship, I suppose. 
{walking off.) 



;o— 



Scene v. 



Henry, — then Anna. 

Anna. And so you will really leave already. And in this 
manner, without a full explanation, and without the c msoling 
assurance that our friendship is again revived, firmer than 
before ? 

Hen. I have nothing further to add to what I have said. 

A. Oh, you are right, your reason tells you are right and 
you listen to nothimg e'se. You have no heart, you have no 
feeling which tel's you tint you should forgive eveni'wrong 
was done. Pardon me, Henry, [ kiow I deserve your cold 
and distant treatment, I know I have forfeited all claim to 
your consideration, but I a'so know that you have loved me 
once, that I was all to you and that you would have given all, 
all that you possessed, yea, even your life's blood; to protect 
and to save me. And although I have forfeited all this, by 
the imprudent, nay, base action of mine, if I am not worthy of 
your consideration, let me adjure you by the love you o ice 
bore me, by the many happy reminiscences of our youth, by 
the many blissful moments we have seen, do not forsake me 
now. Do not let that being, whom you had given your heart, 
be sacrificed to the sneers and jeers of a cold, unpitying 
world. 

Know then what I have learned this evening. My father 
is ruined, is a bankrupt. All this splendour is fa'se, is bor- 
rowed. To-morrow, he will be driven from his home, and I, 
1 with him, with no place to go to, with no heart to pity me, 
with no home to receive me. All these, whom I considered 
friends, have forsaken me. I have not one, not one, who can 
or will assist me. Henry, you have loved me, and you know 
how I have loved you. Can you see this gulf open before 
me, and not reach out a helping hand, when it is within your 



—5i — 

power to do so ? You are our only hope. Will you not as- 
sist my father for my sake, if not for his ? Or will you stand 
quietly by and sae ma delivered over to m'seryand poverty? 

Hen. Poverty is not misery. I a so have been sud- 
denly deprived of all I had, and yet I bore it. 

A. Oh, Henry, you are a man, you may bear it, I cannot. 
Already, this evening, did I see the secret whispering, the 
sarcastic smiles, the mocking civility, of every one here. 
They suspect, they know my misfortune, my humiliation, and 
w'th impatience do they expect the coming morning, in order 
to glory in the fall of their rival, and to see her dragged from 
her proud position and expelled into the darkness of poverty. 
Oh, Henry, c^. n you, will you, permit your once dear Anna 
to undergo th s ordeal ? Can you, will you refuse to hold out 
your helping hand ? 

Hen. O, Anna, do not speak, do not appeal to me. What is 
it that you are about to lose? The position of the first 
beauty and of the most enchanting and heartless coquette in 
the so-called first circle 5 of society ! The consciousness that 
you are the envied of a number of giddy creatures and the 
admired of many empty-headed, profh'gate young men. 
What is it you fear? It is the sarcastic smile, the pungent 
remark, the mocking sympathy of persons, of such persons 
that surround you, and who you confess are unworthy of a 
moments thought. Oh, if you were the Anna whom I knew 
in my youth, and who is still the idol of my heart and my 
only love, you would spurn these creatures, and in your fall 
and poverty would feel yourselves immeasurably superior to 
all. 

A. Oh, but I am not strong. I am not able to bear it. 

Hen. Not able ? What are your imagined sufferings com- 
pared to those which I had to bear? 

When I underwent the same change of fortune, when 
friends deserted me, when I was driven from my home, I re- 
mained firm and was ever happy in the knowledge, that I 
possessed the heart and the love of the only being whom I 



—52— 

ever did and ever shall love. And when I, forsaken by the 
world, and with a full heart, sought refuge with her, who was 
my betrothed and who had sworn true and unalterable love to 
me, I was spurned, repulsed and expelled from this very room 
and from her society, because I was empty in purse. 

What had it been to m^, what cared I for the world, or 
what it spoke, or whether it pointed its finger at me, as long 
as I believed I had your love. You deserted me and now I 
am a changed man, 

A Oh, can you never forget that unhappy episode of my 
life? 

Hen. Never, for it broke the idol of my heart into frag- 
ments and changed my heart's warm blood into ice. 

A. Oh. Henry, if repentance cannot prevail, if the recol- 
lection of other and happier days appeal in vain, then let me 
beg to you, beg as a stranger, whom you knew in better 
days. Oh, do not forsake me. See how my pride is lowered. 
Do not let me be disgraced. Oh, let me, on my knees — 

Hen. Oh, Anna, what are you doing? Rise, oh, rise! Oh 
what shall I do? You beg for help, you appeal to me, but 
not because I love you, but because you love money and 
splendor more ! You spurned me when I had none, you 
kneel before me when I have. My love, my heart is nothing, 
my purse is all. No, Anna, I cannot yield. If I do, it will be 
the death-blow to my love. You will, continue to be as you 
are now, a coquette without heart, a woman without true love. 
No, I must refuse, even if my heart should break. 

A. O, Henry, do you feel no love for me? Can you, will 
you refuse ? 

Hen. I must refuse, because I love you and I wish to save 

you. 

{exit.) 

{Curtain falls.) 



—53— 



ACT V. 



Scene i. 

Charles, [alone,) 

Chas. Well, now I am married three months already and 
still I am the happiest of men. Oh, if I only had known the 
difference between married- and unmarried life, I would 
not have stayed single for a moment longer than the want 
of opportunity would have compelled me to. If I were a law- 
maker, I would make it a law for every young man to get 
married right away. If I were a physician, a professor, a, 
teacher or a preacher, I would advise, teach and preach : 
"Young man, go West or not, just as you please, but get 
married, to a pretty girl if you can, but get married." 

But, perhaps I am wrong. In fact, I think I am, because I 
do not believe, that there are many more such good women, 
in this world, as my own dear Mary. She is the best of all. 
There is no doubt about it. And I am the luckiest man in 
this world, because I had the good fortune to find her, to get 
her and to wed her. People say, I am still in the honey-moon, 
that I am enthusiastic, that this will all pass by. I do not 
believe one word of it. I am not enthusiastic, I am the most 
cold-blooded, deliberate individual about marriage in exis- 
tence and I will prove it. I have watched close, and I have 
discovered a fault in Mary. Now, young wives will hardly 
believe this, because they are all faultless; young husbands 
will find it preposterous, because they cannot find any fault 
in their young mates. But nevertheless, it is so, she has a 
grievous fault and I will tell her so too, and I will cure her of 
it, too. I will. Now, people say, that there is nothing harder 
in this world than to inform a woman that she is not fault- 
less, except one thing, and that is to make her believe it, or 



—54— 

to cure her. But I will do it, I have the necessary boldness, 
I will show my authority, I am her husband and she must 
obey me. The fact is, and that is what I complain of, that 
she does not respect me sufficiently, she is too familiar, too 
intimate with me, she does not recognize me as her lord. 
She comes to me and says : " Charles, or Charley dear, I am 
going out to see some friends ; Charles, I expect some com- 
pany to-day. Dear, I have bought myself a new bonnet, a 
real duck of a bonnet, how do you like it ? " Now that is all 
wrong and ought not to be in a well-regulated family. She 
should know and always remember, that I am the head and 
she should always ask me for permission. She should have 
no will but my own. And I will see to it, that this is done 
in future. Ah, here she comes. 



Scene, i i . 

Charles and Mary. 

Mary. Oh, Charles, dear, here I find you. I was just 
looking for you, to say that I am going out now, to visit my 
dress-maker to see about a new dress for the party. 

Chas. Really? 

Mary. So good-bye, Charley dear, but what is the matter, 
you look so cold, so dignified, so solemn? 

Chas. Now, Mary, let me say a few words before you go. 
Let us have a little serious talk about a matter of vast im- 
portance to both you and me. 

Mary. Not now, not now, I have other matters. 

Chas. Yes, just now. There can be nothing more import- 
ant. Come here, sit down and let me say a few words to you 
in all kindness. 



—55— 

Mary. Why, what is the matter, Charles, you look so se- 
rious, so solemn? 

Chas. Because it is a solemn matter. You know that we 
are married. 

Mary. For Heaven's sake, Charley, what is coming? 
C/ias. Married and happy, I hope, and I also hope that 
we may continue to be so, but — 

Mary. In all goodness Heavens, what do you mean? 
Chas. Now I am your husband and you are my wife. Is 
that not so ? 

Mary. That is correct, but — 
C/ias. A wife should always respect her husband and 
should obey him in all proper things. And see, my dear 
Mary, that is what I am complaining of. 
Mary. Complaining of what ? 
Chas. That you do not respect me sufficiently. 
Mary. But how, tell me? 

Chas. The fact is, you never ask me for permission to do 
anything, but you do it vvithout asking. You say, you will 
go out and you go, that you will stay at home and you stay. 
Now, as everything must have a head, and as the law and 
custom everywhere recognizes the husband as the head, who 
regulates and contro's everything, you ought not to do every- 
thing as you like, but to ask me, whether I will permit it. 
Really, my dear Mary, my good nature and my great love 
for you has made you too independent, too familiar; you for- 
got a little the respect which is due to me, as your husband. 
Not that I should blame you, oh no ! it is all my fault. I 
know, that my little, sweet and smart Mary will, on reflection, 
see that I am right. 

Mary. Really, Charles, you surprise me, and when I 
think of it, I believe you are right. I did occasionally for- 
get that you were my lord and master, and only always re- 
membered that you were my dear husband. But I promise 
to you that I will not forget it again. 



- 5 6- 

. Chas. Really, I knew it. I knew I had the best little 
woman in this wide world. 

Mary. And so, Charles dear, if you will allow me to ad- 
dress you by that name, or else I will say Mr. Charles But- 
terbee. 

Chas, No, no, Charles dear, is the proper expression. 

Mary. Well then, Charles dear, will you please permit me 
to go to my dress-maker? 

Chas. Mary, you are charming. Certainly, dear, certainly, 
and I will never find the heart to refuse you in anything 
Go to you dress-maker, get the finest dress you can find and 
a bonnet in addition. 

Mary. Then good-bye, Charles. I am much obliged for 
your kindness. 

Chas. Wait, wait one minute, you have forgotten some- 
thing. 

Mary Forgotten what ? 

Chas. Why, whenever you used to go out, you came first 
to give me a sweet parting kiss. 

Mary. O, that is so, but now, I really would not dare to ! 

Chas. Not dare to ! Why, what do you mean ? 

Mary. I think I would be too free, too intimate, too famil- 
iar, to kiss my lord and master without first having obtained 
his permission, but if you will command or order me, of course, 
I will obey you and do as you say. 

Chas. Order you, command you to kiss me ! No, indeed, 1 
want a kiss of your own free will. 

Mary. But I have too great a respect for my lord, whom 
I married and to whom I owe obedience in all things, to un- 
dertake this without permission or command. There must 
be a head to everything, there must be a person to command 
and one to obey; the law gives you the right to command, 
and I must obey. There must not be too great a familiarity 
or intimacy, it destroys the respect due to you. I might be 
willing to kiss my husband, my dear Charlie, but my lord and 
master ! Never! 



—57— 

Chas. Stop, I did not mean it that way, I retract every- 
thing, I do not want to be your lord and master, I only want 
to be your loving husband and you to be my own, dear, little 
Mary. 

Mary. My dear Charles, here, take this kiss, I only mean 
to be your own, little, obedient, loving wife. 



Scene, hi. 

The Last and Henry. 

Hen. Well, well, here I find you and it seems at the be- 
ginning of another honey-moon. 

Chas. Oh, no, far from it. We just had our first quarrel. 
Did we not, Mary? 

Mary. Yes indeed, but we made peace again. 

Hen. And who was to blame ? 

Chas. Oh, I of course, it is always so, in a quarrel between 
man and wife. She always somehow comes out right and 
the husband is always wrong. 

But I tell you, judging from the quarrel I just now had, I 
confess I never did realize what a nice and agreeable thing 
such a quarrel is. Why, it is like a summer shower purifying 
the atmosphere, refreshing the ground and causing the flow- 
ers to bloom again as sweet and fragrant. Why, I actually 
like a quarrel with my wife. I begin to feel as if I was go- 
ii g to be the most quarrelsome fellow imaginable, just for the 
purpose of having a good, sweet reconciliation. 

Mary Take care, my dear, never overdo a good thing. 
But really, I must go now, of course with my husband's 
permission. And perhaps, Mr. Randle, I may have news for 
you. I will return soon. 

[Mary goes off.) 



-58- 



Scene iv. 

Henry and Charles. 

Hen. News for me ? What can she mean? 

CJias. Oh, nothing, I suppose, although she thinks, she 
will be able yet to discover Anna. 

Oh, Henry, I am the happiest of all mortals, and Mary is 
the very best of wives. And the only grief I have is to see 
you still unhappy and unmarried. 

Have you heard anything yet of Anna? 

Hen. Nothing, she seems lost, or conceals herself. In vain 
are all my endeavors to find her. 

CJias. I am afraid you were too cruel to her when you re- 
fused her prayer for help. 

Hen. I was cruel, but more cruel to myself than to her. 

CJias. I think you went too far. 

Hen. I went too far? Oh, Charles, if you had known 
that noble girl when first I met her, if you had known the 
purity of her soul and the noble traits of her heart, and then 
afterwards found her changed into a cold, soulless, heartless, 
ca'culating coquette, infected with the miasma of frivolity 
and levity of the girl of fashion of to-day, then you would 
appreciate, with what feelings of sorrow, and at the same 
time of a firm resolve to save her, I looked upon her. I know 
I must have appeared as cold and cruel then, glorying in her 
fall, and in my power to revenge myself upon her, the he'p- 
less creature, but Charles, let me assure you, that I never 
loved her more in my life than at that moment, and that it 
was for her and her sake alone, that I appeared cold and un- 
moveable. Had I not done it, she would have continued to 
be the same giddy, heartless creature, which she had become 
by inhaling the corrupting atmosphere, which surrounds her. 



—59— 

I felt, that to save her and to restore her to herself, and to 
let her pure, good nature expel the demon of pride and 
coquetry, required the severest ordeal and sacrifice, and I 
brought it with a torn, bleeding heart. 

I risked my happiness, in doing what I did, fori risked my 
love. But my hope in her is sufficiently strong to believe, 
that, when she will deliberate and consider my actions at that 
time, her own, true conscience will tell her, that I could not 
have acted otherwise. 

Oh, it is the fault of men, to yield too much to women, it 
is the foundation of too much unhappines to treat the con- 
fiding girl as angel before, and a human being with human 
faults and weaknesses, after marriage; to foster in her the 
belief that she is a paragon of virtue and of all noble qualities, 
and to undertake afterwards to deprive her of this belief, 
which you yourselves have created. 

A wife, whom the flight of her husband's fortune will ren- 
der unhappy, proves that she values such fortune higher than 
her husband or his love, and the girl, who dreads the loss of 
her position in society and for that reason will forsake her 
love, is not worthy of a single thought being bestowed upon 
her. 

A man is a man, and he must never yield his convictions 
and his manhood, not even to his love. 

Chas. True, Henry, and you may be right. But I am not 
prepared to say how I would have acted in the like circum- 
stances. 

But let us not further discuss this matter now. I have to 
go out for a little while. Come with me and let me have your 
company. 

{Exeunt.) 



— 6o- 



SCENE V. 



Mary, {comes in quick.) 

Mary. They are gone, I am glad of it. I am certain I 
have found Anna, working in a small dress-maker's establish- 
ment. I have ordered the lady to send me my dress here by 
her. She must be here, every minute. I ran ahead, in order 
to put Henry and Charles out of the way, so that they should 
not meet her, before I have discovered her feelings towards 
Henry. If she loves him and is worthy of his love, then no 
more delay, the wedding may be to-day ; if she is unworthy 
then he shall not know that I found her or recognized her. 

But how will I discover it? Ah, I have it, his picture, I 
will remove it from the wall and place it here. I will see how 
she will act. 

I hear her, quick, to the next room. 

{exit.) 



Scene vi. 

Anna, {plainly dressed.) 

Anna. I am shown to this room and yet I find no one here. 
[Looks at a card.) Mrs. Charles Butterbee. This was the 
name ol Henry's friend. Perhaps it is his wife to whom I 
am now sent by my employer to fit her dress. And yet there 
are more names like this. It is improbable, very improbable, 
that accident would bring me into her house, and I would 
dread to meet her, although I have never seen her and do not 
know her. How fine everything is here, and yet no compar- 
ison to the luxury I possessed in days gone by. But I envy 
it not. I have no longing for this, I have been taught its 



— 6i— 

vanity too well. But what is this, his picture? taken down 
from the wall and placed in this corner? What does it mean? 
But it is true, then, that I must be in his friend's house. If 
anyone would recognize me ! Never! away! I must find an 
excuse never to return. 

(as she is going, the door opens and enters Mary.) 



Scene vi i. 
Mary. Anna. 

Alary. Excuse me if I have kept you waiting. You are 
the dress-maker? 

Anna. Yes, madam, I am sent here by my employer to at- 
tend to your wishes. 

Mary. Then please let us step into the other room. But 
what do I see? this picture still here, when I have given posi- 
tive orders to remove it? Is this the way I am obeyed? 
(Rings the bell, Servant appears.} 

Take away this picture, take it out of its frame and return 
the frame. Why was it, not done before, as I ordered ?(Ser- 
vant attempts to speak.) Never mind your excuses, do it now. 
And if Mr. Randle should ever call again, inform that neither 
my husband norT are at home for him. 

Anna. This photograph bears a resemblance to one of my 

acquaintances, May I ask who it is? 

Mary. It represents a former friend of my husband, but 
he is a friend no longer, as he has forfeited all claims to it. 
And so his picture wounds my eyes. I cannot bear the sight 
of him, and yet, his photograph remained here, reminding 
me of him, and, as I hate all disagreeable reminiscences, I had 
given orders to remove the same, and I will also have the 
orders enforced if he should again make his appearance here, 
which he sometimes does. 



—62—- 

Anna, If this picture represents Mr. Randle, I have never 
heard, that he was guilty of any dishonorable act. 

Mary. That may be so, but he is no longer a friend of this 
house, nor shall he be a visitor any more. There is too much 
of a gulf between his social standing and ours. 

Anna. I had heard of him as being very wealthy, well- 
educated and of good family. 

Mary. This was once so, but as he lost everything in wild 
speculations and now lives on the mercy of his former friends 
and appeals to them continually, I will not tolerate his pres- 
ence any longer, and if you know him, as you seem to do, 
you may inform him of this resolution. 

Anna. If I should meet him, I will certainly do so, but 
then, perhaps, I may ask for this picture of his, without the 
frame, as you seem to attach some value to that. 

Mary. If it is only the picture, you may have it. But let 
us go in, I am impatient to see how my dress fits. But here 
is my husband. [Charles enters?) (To' Miss Prideall.) Remain 
here for a minute, I will call you. I wish to say a few words 
to my husband. Charles, come. 

{Charles and Mary exeunt.) 

Scene vi 1 1, 

Anna. [Alone.) 

O, how my heart throbs, And Henry, also poor and de- 
spised by these, his former friends. Oh, I feel that my love 
to him did never die. O, and if he could but love me still, 
how happy we could be, in spite of our poverty. 

But whom do I see ? Henry ! 



-6 3 - 



Scene ix. 

Hen. You Anna, here, is it really you ? 

Anna. Yes, Henry, it is I, and I know all. But what 
makes you turn your steps to this proud mansion and to these 
people, to whose eyes your photograph is an eyesore, which 
they will no longer bear, I know that misfortune has befal- 
len you, that the riches, so rapidly acquired have flown away 
as quickly as they came, but I never thought, that you would 
ever lose your manhood and your self-respect and attempt to 
force your presence upon those, who are desirous of avoiding 
it, and stoop to ask favors of those, who hate and despise you 
and your presence. 

Hen. Oh, Anna, I cannot understand you. To what you 
allude ? 

Anna. Forgive me, that I speak so warm to you and take 
this liberty. But, Henry, you were a friend of mine and you 
were more. You have loved me and you have saved me. 
The day when last we met and parted, and when you refused 
my prayer for help, when bankruptcy overtook my father and 
I was deprived of all that I had valued, that day, so sad to me 
then, restored me to myself, and my better nature, which was 
being lost in the frivolities, with which I was surrounded, re- 
turned, and I soon learned that true happiness does not dwell 
with luxury or splendour, but only in one's own heart as you 
expressed it then. I thank you now, for the firmness with 
which you resisted my entreaties; although then I believed 
that it was extreme cruelty, for it has restored to me content- 
ment and happiness and it is with a strange feeling, as if I 
must have been bewildered, that I look back upon those days 
of my existence. 

Hen. Oh, Anna, you do not know how happy you make 
me, by this avowal. Oh, if you had known what pangs I 
suffered, when I saw you reach forth your hands for help and 
when I, cruel and revengeful as I must have appeared to you, 



_6 4 - 

refused your prayer. But my heart told me, it was the only 
way to save your love to me. And I, Anna, have loved you, 
loved you always, loved you in my youth and ever since up 
to this day. 

When you spurned me from your presence, I felt that your 
heart would revolt against it. Oh, how I was mortified, and 
how I tried to tear my love to you from my bosom but 1 
could not yield you. And if you knew how I suffered when 
1 saw you apparently in the power of these heartless creat- 
ures whom you have since learned to know and despise. Oh, 
how I prayed for an opportunity to rid you of them, and to 
see once more the Anna, the love of my youth. And, Anna, 
it came, you implored me for help, asked me to let you re- 
main with those who had robbed me of you and your love, 
and I refused, refused with a bleeding heart because I wished 
to save you and to make you mine. And now, that I have 
found you again, pure and as of old, when we two were suffi- 
cient to ourselves and needed no splendour or luxuries to 
complete our happiness, now let me ask you again : Forget 
the interval which separated us, let us be united once more 
in unchanging love, be mine. 

Anna. Oh, Henry, I have always loved you, even when 
you least suspected it. But let us away from here. Oh, do 
not come here and lower yourselves to ask these people for 
favours or assistance. I have just seen the proud lady of this 
house tear off your picture from this wall, because its pres- 
ence reminded her of you, of whom she does not wish to be 
reminded. Oh, if you need a friend, do not seek those here, 
they want you not. Then come to me. I have worked, and 
Henry, I will share with you whatever little I may have. 
Come, come away. 

Hen. But what mean you ? 



-6 5 - 



Scene x. 

Charles and Mary enter. Last. 

Mary. Will the young lady come into my room now? I 
am not satisfied with the dress. 

Anna. (To Henry.) I must see you. Wait for my re- 
turn. 

(Mary and Anna exeunt.) 

Hen. I am bewildered. I find Anna here and then she 
talks so wild. What is it? 

C/ias. Let me explain. My wife discovered Anna working 
in a dress-maker's establishment. She ordered a dress and 
asked that Anna should bring it here, and in order to find 
out what her present feelings towards you were, she had your 
picture removed from the wall and represented you as im- 
poverished and as haunting this place, where you were not 
wanted, and living on the alms which former friends might 
bestow. But Henry, Anna loves you yet. 

Hen. I know. I met her here and not only does she love 
me, but she is again my own, with her pure heart and soul, 
that she was before she became contaminated with the pois- 
onous atmosphere of her surroundings. But where is she now? 

Chas. With my wife. Under the pretence, that she wishes 
to see how her dress will look, she has her to put it on and then 
she will bring her here to unite you once more, and she then 
desires her to appear on your arm in the society which is 
assembling here. 



—66— 

Scene xi. 

Last. Mary. Anna. 

[Mary leading Anna.) 

Alary. Charles, I wish to ask you how you like this dress ? 
But I see Mr. Randle is here. Permit me to introduce you. 

Men, No introduction now, except the one I will give. 
Mr. and Mrs. Butterbee, my bride, Anna, my friends. 

Anna. Your friends ? What does this mean ? 

Mary. Pardon me, Miss Prideall, the little strategy that 1 
used to bring you two together. I saw Henry disconsolate, 
grieving for you and searching you in vain. By accident, I 
discovered you , working and toiling. I asked your employer to 
send you here, and then I invented that story about his pov- 
erty and this photograph, in order to discover the true state 
of your feelings towards him, with the intention of re-uniting 
you, if possible, but fate has been in advance of me, and — 

Men. Fortunately I found her, and now we are united, 
never again to separate. 

Mary. And now our party is about to begin, the music 
commences. {Music plqys a dance, behind the scene.) Some of 
your friends and acquaintances of that time, when you were 
the brightest star in the galaxy of society, will be here. 

Let Henry and you enter arm in arm and take your place, 
which your beauty entitles you to. Many of them will faint 
from envy. 

Anna. No. no, never more. My ambition lies not in that 
direction. Let them amuse and enjoy themselves and intrigue 
and envy. I care nothing for the dazzling splendour of the 
world. At the side of Henry. And if he will love me and 
permit me to be his true and loving wife, I will find my joy 
and happiness and desire nothing more. 

Men. O, I knew it! Anna, we now understand each other, 
we are happy ! 

{Curtain falls.) 



